Not About Him
by Writer is Ninja
Summary: Sometimes the less you speak the more meaning the words hold.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. *Insert legal mumbo jumbo* J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.  
  
AN: Ootp spoilers. Slash. Sirius/?, Harry/Remus. *Word/Sentence* is italics since FF.Net is a pain.  
  
Summary: Sometimes the less you speak the more meaning the words hold.  
  
Not About Him  
  
***  
  
Their sides brushed as they passed on the stairs. He blushed a bit and hurried up the rest of the way to his room. It wasn't the same room he had shared last year, but rather a place for him to be alone. Not that he got to be alone, really. The Order must have been afraid of a suicide attempt or something, or they were just even more uptight on security. Probably both, he figured, sitting down on one of the chairs in front of the fire. The room was truly beautiful and far too large. It was the perfect place for one to sit in silence and stare into the flames or read a well-worn and loved book. Not that he got the chance to do those things. Solitude was not a gift granted him and probably never would be. And, true to form, George and Tonks entered five minutes later, asking him if he wanted to do anything, dragging him downstairs. He should probably have told them that he wanted the chance to grieve, that not getting that chance would make things worse later on, but he didn't. He simply followed behind Tonks and George as they led him to the kitchen, the very place he had always tried to be furthest away from. As he looked about the full, silent kitchen – silent for him, but not the silence he wanted – his eyes flashed fury at the idiocy of it all. His eyes fell on Dumbledore, though, then Kingsley, then Snape, and his eyes and emotions fell back into the muted, gentle, detached sorrow they had previously been in and had grown accustomed to. He noted that Tonks and George were already sitting, and that everyone was looking at him, staring at him, waiting for him to do the same. Why were they so sure that he would sit? His gaze fell to the one empty chair, the one that Sirius would have sat in under any normal circumstances, and he turned, his eyes closed softly.  
  
And he walked away...  
  
And he walked...  
  
And he...  
  
And...  
  
Nothing.  
  
And he felt...  
  
Nothing.  
  
They called out his name, all of them, begging him to come back to a place he had long avoided. And then a voice, the voice of the only person who could even come close to understanding, halted their protests.  
  
"Let him go," said the quiet voice. "Let him be."  
  
He felt he should have had tears in his eyes. If not of sorrow, then at least of gratitude towards the man who had just excused him to let out his grief. But he couldn't cry, couldn't let out his grief. Not after so long. Not after so long of...  
  
Of what?  
  
Of holding it in? Of just going through the motions? Most of his life had been like that, so what was so different this time? Was it that he had just allowed himself to feel, and in doing so exposed his heart to all? That he had left his heart open to care or pain, and had received both? Wouldn't he rather feel the nothingness, the grey, than pain, even if the pain came with love? Was it the loss that hurt or the love? Would he ever know?  
  
Did he even care? he decided.  
  
*Their sides brushed as they passed on the stairs. He blushed a bit and hurried up the rest of the way to his room.* Yes, he decided. He cared. He cared all too much. He cared all too much that he was feeling the same for another so soon, another that had been so *close* to Sirius. But not in the way you were, he reminded himself, but not in the same way you were. He'd gotten to know Sirius in a much different way than anyone else had...  
  
*"Let him go," said the quiet voice. "Let him be."*  
  
But the voice wasn't talking to them, telling *them* to leave *him* alone. It was telling *him* to leave *Sirius* alone, to let the man's soul rest. To let Sirius rest in peace...  
  
*R.I.P.,*  
  
*Gravestones,*  
  
*Death,*  
  
*Churchyards,*  
  
*The grim,*  
  
*Padfoot,*  
  
*Sirius.*  
  
But this wasn't about Sirius, not this time. *Their sides brushed as they passed on the stairs. He blushed a bit and hurried up the rest of the way to his room.* Not this time. This time it was about him. Them. The "them" he hoped might someday develop. Was he so eager to be rid of his past, or was this truly something else? No, he didn't regret one bit of his relationship with Sirius. He would gladly do it all again. If he let the past fully dictate his future, though, he'd surely run out of past one day. If he ran out of something that was deciding his future completely, what future would he have? If the future was his life and he had no future, what did he have *left*? Death? He didn't have the energy left in him to die.  
  
*Their sides brushed as they passed on the stairs. He blushed a bit and hurried up the rest of the way to his room.* He needed to move on, or he might just find enough energy to die. He didn't think he'd ever again have the energy to live through tears. He didn't have the energy to hold tears in either, and thought of simply sleeping forever, but then sat in his chair by the fire. Minutes passed with his eyes closed lightly. A board, the loose one by the door, creaked as the other man came into the room. He could tell by the soft, nearly noiseless pad of footfalls who was there.  
  
A soft, gentle, calloused hand caressed his cheek in circles as the figure the hand belonged to sat on the arm of his chair. His eyes stayed closed even as his tears finally fell. He didn't want to open his eyes and have the other man pull away with disgust. So instead he kept his eyes closed and pressed his salty wet lips to the other's.  
  
"Are you sure...?" as they broke apart a few minutes later. Uncertainty, but not his.  
  
*Their sides brushed as they passed on the stairs. He blushed a bit and hurried up the rest of the way to his room.* A nod to the affirmative, eyes no longer closed and tears no longer falling.  
  
*"Let him go," said the quiet voice. "Let him be."*  
  
This wasn't about Sirius. He had to let go, to move on. They made their way towards the bed of warm, Gryffindor colours. This was about them; the "them" that could be and the "them" that was beginning. This was no longer about Sirius, but about Harry and Remus.  
  
As Harry Potter and Remus Lupin stripped each other of their clothes, one thought came to them both:  
  
*Rest in peace, Sirius Black.*  
  
They thought of him no more that day.  
  
*** 


End file.
